Sociopathy
by murtagh799
Summary: There was something utterly wrong about the way they thought about each other. He shouldn't have ever come back for her and she really should not have let him.
1. Sociopathy

A/N: Just something short and sweet since I haven't posted anything for a long time. It was initially intended to be a one shot, but I might be compelled to continue if inspiration strikes! Hope you enjoy.

**Rated: T for questionable situations. **

**Disclaimer: Conversation provided courtesy of Red Eye. Do not own. **

**SOCIOPATHY **

He slammed her tired, sore body roughly against the airplane washroom wall. She felt as if she were suffocating. Staring up into his icy blue eyes, she realized she _was _suffocating, slowly drowning in his steel cold depths.

His charming smile flashed before her eyes, her memory reminding her of how kind, how sweet he could be. She lost what little breath remained in her lungs and her stomach began to ache. Tears welled up in her eyes. How could someone like that just... just change so drastically? How could she have let her guard down like that again?

How could she have allowed herself to be fooled like that?

But maybe he wasn't a _complete _sociopath, she thought. Yes, he had some major psychotic issues. She knew he did from the way he was glaring down at her. But... maybe she could appeal to some semblance of his morality. Everyone had some, didn't they? She had seen him care, even it if had been brief. He had told the impatient man off back at the check in line at the airport, hadn't he?

"You don't have to do this," she whispered to him in appeal, hoping it would do something, _anything. _She hoped it would make him stop this insanity. "Any of this."

His face was a mask of disbelief and disgust. What would she know about what he did and did not have to do? She didn't know the first thing about his life! Not the first thing! Who was she to make such grand assumptions about anything? She was just a lowly manager at an insignificant hotel. She didn't know the _first fucking thing. _

He was about to tell her so when his heart clenched at her expression. She looked desperate, almost desolate. As if what he said right here, right now, would change her life forever. And he realized it would. He had the power to crush this beautiful little flower right against the wall.

Such a pity. She had been his most appealing target yet. It would be such a waste to kill her after all this was over and done with. But then again... he could just _keep _her. No one would miss her. She had no friends anyways.

But then he was distracted from his thoughts. His eyes were drawn to her small little chest, moving as she breathed irregularly. Had he been the cause of that? His eyes followed the barely noticeable scar that marred her otherwise perfect pale skin.

At first, he was shocked. A second later disgust flowed through him. "Did someone do that to you?" he asked, almost hissing. His anger slowly spiralled out of control. "Is that what this is?"

She shook her head insistently, scared out of her mind. "No," she said on repeat, as if her life were dependant on him believing that little lie. It did, her life bloody depended on it! Suddenly, he was angry with her. How could she have hidden something like that from him? He _deserved _to know, goddamnit. After researching every single preference and habit of hers for months! After following her every waking moment, watching her sleep for eight weeks, she'd kept a secret like that?

He was supposed to know everything about her. This job depended on it. His life depended on it. How could he have missed something so crucial? He narrowed his eyes, glaring at her once more. Suddenly, without any warning, he slammed her up against the wall again, his fingers closing around her neck and choking her viciously.

"You know what I think? I think you're not such an honest person," he growled into her ear, lifting her up brutally by her neck and cutting off her air supply in the process. "Because I've followed you for eight weeks now, and I've never _once _seen you order anything but a fucking sea breeze!"

He panted into her ear, winded from her passion. He had been irritated when she hadn't let him have the satisfaction of ordering her drink for her. Didn't she know that it was meant to be part of his charming act? She had messed with his routine. It had pissed him the hell off. Combined with her keeping secrets... well, how much was a man supposed to take?

He didn't enjoy being lied to, and he certainly didn't like secrets. If they were going to go anywhere in this professional relationship of theirs, she was going to have to pick up some slack! He wouldn't have it any other way.

Why couldn't she have just cooperated with him like the rest had? It would have made things so much easier. Much less stressful for both him and her. Not that he cared if she was under stress. She deserved it after she had lied to him.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when he realized she was trying to tell him something. "Can't breathe... can't... breathe-" So, he let go, not wanting to damage the goods too much, prematurely. She panted roughly, he could feel her sweet breath against his cheek as he leaned towards her.

He stared at the mirror where she had tried to write her stupid little message and his anger flared up again. She could have gotten everyone killed! Didn't she bloody understand what was at stake here? She had to understand that no one messed with his business without suffering the consequences.

He started to wipe away the soap message. "I've never lied to you, Leese," he said, addressing her as she turned away from him, really sobbing now. "You know why? Cause it doesn't serve me." He leaned towards her as he spoke, and the smell of her coffee and rose scented hair only drove him on to make the stupid girl understand his point. "We're both professionals. We have the will and the means to follow through. If we don't, our customers aren't happy, and if they're not, we suffer and our lives go to _shit_."

He wanted her to know that no one was ever going to make _his _life to go shit. Never again. Not now, not ever. She wasn't going to be the one to do it.

He leaned towards her and pulled her face towards his to stare into her eyes. He found that woman found this to be appealing at times, but mostly it just made his point clearer. Women enjoyed that kind of stuff, didn't they? Eye contact? But she just looked dejected. His heart softened.

"But that's not going to happen, is it?" he questioned, wanting to confirm her intentions. He didn't have to be cruel to her if she cooperated. He quite liked her, in fact, he would prefer if she would just let him be nice. He could do that if she let him.

She was panting, she looked exhausted. He realized he was panting as well, his breaths matching hers. Pleasure swept through him when she whispered what he had wanted from the beginning. "No..." From this distance, he could see her eyes were a pretty shade of gold-green.

"Good," he said, genially, happy now that he had gotten what he had wanted. "Because I'm going to tell you the phones are working again. Are you sure we have a deal this time?" His voice was sweet, she realized.

How could anyone refuse a voice that sweet, coming from a man who looked like Adonis himself? She nodded. There was no use refusing him now. She'd done everything she could to prevent the inevitable. "Yes," she whispered, again. She was so, so afraid.

"Peachy," he smiled, and Goosebumps prickled her skin. "Well, thanks for the quicky," he said. Shock seeped through her, especially because the idea of a quicky didn't sound so drastically bad after all. It was certainly better than what they had been doing in reality. She felt sick to her stomach. She felt... used. He reached back to grasp her face once more as if to ascertain his job was completed.

With a quick perusal of her features that were so withdrawn now, so...complacent that was quite uncharacteristic of what he had come to know of her as, he whispered, "Good." Good that she was broken in now, or good that he hadn't damaged her beyond repair?

She didn't want to know. She hurried shame-facedly and determined back to her seat before anyone could admonish her for what they no doubt thought had happened in the washroom.

How wrong they'd all be.

One thing was for sure. Jackson Rippner was not simply a sociopath. There was so much more wrong with him that that. She shuddered when he sat down again in his seat, leaned towards her, and flashed her a smile. It was his signature smile, she realized. A feral grin to anyone who knew him, something charmingly irresistible to everyone else.

She knew she was drowning, would drown before the night was out – captured in the depths of his silky blue eyes.

**A/N: Would love to hear what you thought of this! Would you like to see more? **


	2. Anything But a Sea Breeze

**A/N: I originally had been resolved to not continue writing this, but the urge to continue popped up out of nowhere. So, here's the second installment. I'm not sure whether I ought to up the rating. What do you think? Please let me know! **

**A big thank you to everyone who's reading and the sweet people who reviewed. It's much appreciated! **

**CHAPTER TWO: ANYTHING BUT A SEA BREEZE**

Jackson Rippner was pleasantly amused.

Ever since he had let himself out of prison, which was now roughly six months ago, things just seemed to get funnier and funnier. Of course, in the beginning he had been angry. No, he had been livid. So bloody furious that he had killed three useless security guards at the oh so competent penitentiary that they had shoved him in after _the incident. _That's what he was going to refer to her as. The incident. He hadn't killed all the guards at once, of course. Where was the fun in _that _kind of altercation?

But, as they had relocated him to solitary confinement, he had had a lot of time to think. Consequently, a lot of his anger had melted away. Really. It was rather funny what a little thinking time could do for one's perspective. There were no distractions. Just him, his thoughts, and four innocent cement walls. What those walls must have seen in their day. Certainly no one like him. Staring at them, he had thought. The more he thought, the more he had understood, and the more he understood, the funnier he found it.

And hell, it _was _rather funny.

All of it was _so _funny in fact, that he had actually laughed while escaping. That part wasn't too interesting, honestly – nothing he hadn't done before. It had almost been too easy, like they had been asking for it. They had been in the process of transporting him to another prison – where? He didn't know nor did he particularly care. He had only had to take out two guards in the process. Honestly. Two guards were all they had assigned to him. He really couldn't make that up. Just because he was of average build didn't mean he couldn't take a guy out.

Just because he had gotten in over his head concerning one particular red head and had _let _her put him on his knees, did _not _mean he had lost his touch.

He had a very particular skill set, after all. He wasn't going to let the unmentionable incident change anything. And it _hadn't _changed anything. What Lisa Reiser didn't know was that someone like Jackson bloody Rippner did not leave anything unfinished.

Really, what did she think? That just because he hadn't managed to blow up her stupid little hotel with Keefe in it, that that would be it? Did she _really _think he would've gone after her that stupid fucking day if he hadn't had a plan B?

Or a Plan C for that matter.

It had always been his idea to set up a gas explosion at the Keefe's residence. Nothing too personal. Nothing too involved or flashy. It would've been easy, in and out in a flash. No one would have to suspect anyone. Sure, there would be conspiracy theories, but that would've been it. In fact, he'd set it all up and everything, the weekend Keefe had gone back home to visit his precious little family. It was the Friday before the stupid Red Eye flight. But his client had wanted a bang, a splash, a big _message. _It wasn't like he could've said _no. _

It didn't matter now. None of it did. He had been angry at first, stuck in his stupid little jail cell. But then, his genius plan had set itself off, and just like that his mission was complete. He hadn't even had to lift a finger, not really. He'd been in solitary confinement for the second time in two months when the FBI, CIA - who the hell knows who else - came to question the hell out of him.

And it had been funny. It had been so fucking funny.

It only took him another month to get out of that boring shit hole, but it had been good for him. He had needed to get away, to think instead of acting rashly like he had. He should never have let the bitch goad him into running after her. He hadn't been able to help it, she was just so _tempting. _But really, he should have just disappeared. He should have killed her in that airplane bathroom. He should've gave her a kiss goodbye and a promise that he'd be back before he went on his little prison mental break.

Correction: before she had _sent _him to his little jail cell.

But really, it didn't matter now, not now that it was all done. Over and done with, he whispered to himself. He'd finished his job, so his client couldn't _really _complain. He'd pretty much covered up his tracks and thrown away his identity again, so the authorities weren't going to find him any time soon. He only had one loose end to take care of, and then he could be out of the shit hole that was Miami.

She hadn't changed overly much in all the time he had been gone, which was fitting. _He _had a scar on his throat from where she'd stabbed him and there was still some residual pain from being shot by her bloody father. But still. In the six months since he'd escaped prison and had taken to following her, he had healed considerably. He had lost his limp even before he had escaped prison. The limp she'd given him by stabbing him in the thigh with her heel.

It still surprised him, how she seemed so much like herself, like how he'd known her to be when he'd followed her the first time all those months ago. It was almost like he didn't exist in her world, like none of what they had gone through had even happened. And if he didn't know any better, if he hadn't had all this time to change his perspective, he would've gotten angry and gone right up to her where she so prettily sat to snap her little neck right then and there.

In the end, it was the little things she did that gave him comfort, stopped him from killing her outright and moving on like he should've been doing, like he'd done every other time he'd found himself in a situation like this. But she was different. She had more than just inconvenienced him. She had made known to him that she _deserved _whatever he gave to her. She had defied him and he wanted that. At least, he wanted that all for himself for a while before he grew bored. He inevitably always grew bored.

She _was _different, though. Different than what she used to be like. It was the little things that gave her away.

She slept with _all _of her lights on. Not the one in her kitchen window like she'd used to, not like before at all. Every single bloody light in her small little apartment was always on. She had adorably installed what she thought was a perfectly acceptable security system. That wouldn't protect her when push came to shove, when he would come for her. And maybe she knew it too, because she slept with a knife under her pillow, her field hockey stick in the corner next to her bed, and clutching a loaded gun while she slept.

It almost made him proud.

He knew all of this because he had installed cameras in her apartment out of sheer boredom, only several weeks back. Best decision he had made thus far, regarding her. It made staking out so much more entertaining.

She rarely slept. It made him feel like she was keeping him company, and he almost felt like he was there with her as he watched her waste away her time night after night. He liked to think he knew her intimately. He absolutely _knew _he had imprinted himself into her mind like she had wedged herself into his. Every time someone touched her unexpectedly, she would jump and have her hands fly to her neck where he'd choked the life out of her.

Oh, she put up a great show, he'd give her that. She was all fake smiles and giggles, something that made him want to take her to bed and tie her up to keep her there. She even went out once in a while with that silly little chit. What was her name? Cynthia. Cynthia, indeed. They would have drinks periodically at the hotel bar. And he would pay attention like he normally did. Much to his amusement, she never ordered a sea breeze ever again.

It was funny, really. She'd given up something for _him. _Because of _him. _It made him deliriously happy, watching her sip something she clearly didn't like the taste of, just to get the memory of him out of her head.

But he wasn't leaving, oh no, not without having her first. He was here to stay, at least for the time being, and poor little Leese would get what was coming to her – what she deserved, what she _owed _to him. And when he finally took what was his, he would smile. Because Jackson Rippner was many bad things, but he knew how to appreciate a good thing when it came his way.

Knocking back the rest of his scotch, he spared her fake smiling face one more glance before making his way home to the apartment that faced her kitchen window.

Home sweet home.

/

She didn't know what she would do these days if she wasn't subscribed to Netflix.

It was a really stupid thing to think, honestly. She'd never admit it out loud to anyone, of course, not to Cynthia, not to her father, no one. What would they think of her then? She had been pathetic before…the _incident. _Alwaysall by herself, a workaholic, only her father knowing why she was the way she was_. _Then she had morphed into a hero, even though she was only really a coward. She didn't want anyone else to know that, however. She didn't want them to change the way they looked at her. Not again.

She'd be damned if she went back to people thinking she was pathetic. Of course, she was still utterly alone and a workaholic. It was true she went out even less than she did after everything had happened nine months ago. But she rather liked having people think of her as something more than just the sad little hotel manager that probably worked because she was a prude and couldn't get a date.

The rumors were only _half _true, after all.

As it was, her dependency on distractions like Netflix was becoming alarming, but there was nothing to be done for it. She couldn't tell anyone what was going on because that would raise too many questions, too many memories, and a chance that they'd lock her away in a mental hospital. What would she do without her job? She'd go even crazier than she was now, that was for sure, and that was something she was trying to avoid dearly.

She couldn't sleep. Because she couldn't sleep, she just had way too much time to think. And because she didn't want to make herself sicker than she actually was, she had to _not _think about the things that had trapped themselves inside her head. It wouldn't do to dwell. She was a master at ignoring herself and her stupid thoughts, anyway.

That was why she needed the distractions.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could see cold pale blue stare right back at her. It was sickening. It actually made her sick to the point of emptying the contents of her stomach into the nearest receptacle every so often. Not that she'd _tell _that to anyone. Not that there was any way she would admit it if she ever had the opportunity.

When she shut the lights, she could practically feel him slam her up against the plane wall, choke the hell out of her, and make her make that damned call. She could feel him throw her down the stairs, glare at her, pull her back by her hair and –

She had to stop doing this to herself, honestly she did. She had plans to make herself stop one of these days. She was working on it, honestly, she was. She was going to whip her mind and herself into shape just like she'd done two and a half years ago after… after…

After her innocence had been ripped away from her.

Oddly, she didn't think about that as much anymore. Not as much as she used to, anyway. Of course, it was still there. Something like that wasn't just going to get up and disappear, not for as long as she lived. It was just that there were… well, _other _things that had taken the place of playing on repeat in her head, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

When she lay safely beneath her covers, feeling not very safe at all, there was one particular scene that repeated itself in her head and plagued her the most of all.

_He had her trapped against the wall. He'd had her there. She had struggled and failed because despite all of her strategizing aside, he really was stronger. It didn't matter if this was her home, her territory, or that she had wounded him and slowed everything down. He was stronger, that's really what it came down to. Another man had taught her that lesson on the floor of a parking lot those very few brief years ago. And she had sworn to herself, had sworn to anything and everything out there that it would never happen again. _

_He had the oddest look on his face for the brief moment that he had managed to subdue her. She didn't like it. It was unpredictable. He was not glaring. Breathing heavy because of the pain, but not glaring. Surely all killers expressed their hatred before they killed. She deserved that at least, the predictability, being able to __know. __She deserved it goddamn it. And he was going to give it to her. _

_It was odd, really, because for a second there she felt that maybe he would've let it go if she hadn't provoked him. She had seen the acquiescence in his stunning cold blue eyes for the briefest of seconds beyond all the physical and mental pain she had caused him. He was breathing harshly, but he was calm. He was in control. And he didn't deserve that. If anyone deserved any semblance of control, it was her._

_So, she took it from him._

"_You're pathetic," she spat in his face. _

_And just like that, the second was over. She had so very easily snapped his hard won calm and unleashed the beast that he had very precariously caged within himself. He so easily pulled at her and threw her helplessly down the stairs, like she was as light as a feather. She felt vindicated for that second in free fall, even though she screamed. This she could be familiar with. It wasn't that she was afraid of dying just then. It was that he was going to make her pay for the provocation. Still, it wasn't a mistake. For all he had put her through in the last few hours, it wasn't even close to a mistake. _

_She couldn't really remember what occurred in the moments following, not clearly. She had hit her head really hard. She remembered dashing for the gun. She remembered hearing the sirens. She remembered his cocky certainty that he would get away, clutching his knife like he owned the place, like he owned __her. _

"_We'll talk again," he gasped at her with his damaged voice. _

"_Don't move," she said just as easily. _

_He wasn't going to get away with this. Not any of this. She wasn't going to let him own her. Because, hell, she believed him. She believed in his certainty, believed that he would come back for her if she dropped her resolve and let him escape, if she couldn't keep him there long enough. And what would she do then? She was very close to losing, she knew she was. He'd kill her. He couldn't kill her now, there was no time for that. But she believed him when he said he would come back and kill her. _

_So, she shot him. What was she supposed to do? She shot him. She couldn't remember it clearly. It had happened so fast. He had been coming for her. She remembered his rage. She remembered him pulling her up by her hair so viciously, like all of this was her doing and he was only obliging her. How had he done it? He was shot, wounded, and bleeding, but still strong enough to lift her up by her hair like that. And then… and then he had been shot again. _

_But the clearest thing that had stayed with her, the most imprinted image in her memory that was there no matter how she attempted to distract herself, was of him laying there in her father's living room, so badly hurt and bleeding. It was the look on his face that gave her pause and made her want to cry. It wasn't anger or rage as it had been just moments before when he had tried to do her physical harm. When he'd possibly tried to kill her. All of that was gone now, as he lay bleeding._

_No, it was something else entirely and she still couldn't understand it to this day._

_It was betrayal. Hurt. Disappointment. _

_Disgust. As if she was the disgusting one. _

_In his eyes, she could see the question: How could you do this to me? And she wanted to sob at that because, well, how couldn't she? What was she supposed to do? Let him kill her? She couldn't side with him after what he had done, no matter how beautifully heartbroken he had looked just then. The question on his face, in his ridiculously gorgeous eyes was utterly and completely unwarranted. What was she supposed to do? She swore she could have felt his pain at that moment, could hear the sirens too._

_And for one misguided second, she had almost felt guilty, almost felt bad for him, so expressive was the emotion on his face._

_Her father had wanted to pull her out of the room, she could remember his hands grasping her and trying to get her away from the monster splayed so wonderfully on the floor where she had played scrabble as a kid during Christmas. He had looked so broken then, so dejected, like she'd broken the rules of some unspoken game they had been playing and that he'd counted on her. He had trusted her and she had just gone and ruined him._

_He was disappointed._

And that was what scared her the most. Those feelings, his face, his eyes, and that image of him lying there… If he could make her lean towards him, even after all that he had done to her, truly she was in need of help. She hadn't wanted him to live through his injuries, not really, not when she actually thought about it later on. But he had persuaded her that it had all been her fault in that one second before the police had arrived and had carted him away.

It made her blood run cold. _That _was the reason she kept herself armed at all times. Not because she believed that he would come back, not really. Not even because she knew that he would kill her if he was ever given the chance. But because she needed to know and firmly believe that people who were as far gone as Jackson Rippner – if that even was his real name – could not be reasoned with, and couldn't be saved.

She needed to make sure that if she ever saw him again, as unlikely as that possibility was in reality, that she knew he was beyond dangerous. She needed to keep hold onto the thought that people like him, and her attacker all those years ago, wanted to break her down from the inside first, make her lose herself and her faith to live. And then, when she was good and begging for death, would they leave her in her misery, locked up in a mental hell that she couldn't get out of.

And who knew, maybe a person like Jackson Rippner would come back and finish the deed, just for one last laugh, making her believe that she deserved whatever he chose to do to her.

And that was not a risk that she was willing to take.

**A/N: Drop a line! Let me know what you thought and whether you'd like to see more. **


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